


Creolized

by farad



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:22:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vin and Nathan hunting herbs</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creolized

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mag 7 Bingo, for the prompt Neatsfoot Oil. The story is set soon after "One Day Out West", when the boys are still getting to know each other.
> 
> From Merriam Webster's Online Dictionary: Creolize is a verb alteration of creole, which derives from the Spanish criollo, "a person native to a locality." 1. To combine local and foreign elements into a new, distinct whole.

"Hey, now, it's just me," Vin said calmly, resisting the instinct to drop the firewood he was carrying and raise his hands as he stared into the barrel of Nathan's pistol. "I called out, thought you heard me." He kept his voice low, pitching the words as if he were soothing his horse.

After a few seconds, Nathan drew a shaky breath and lowered the gun. "Sorry," he said, his voice wavering. "Guess I didn't hear you."

Vin nodded, taking his own breath and looking around. They'd set up camp in the bend of the river, Vin caring for the horses and setting up the fire while Nathan took advantage of the late afternoon sunlight to search out the plants and roots he needed for making his potions. He was on his knees now, using one of his knives to cut away the lower branches of a sage bush. He put his gun back in his holster and Vin walked slowly past him toward the place he'd cleared in the ground to start the fire. Nathan picked up his knife but before he went back to his trimming, he reached back, rubbing the blade along his back, at a spot he couldn't reach with his fingers.

"You all right?" Vin asked, placing the wood for the fire but watching Nathan scratch.

"Yeah, just a little jumpy," Nathan answered. "Sorry 'bout that."

"That ain't what I mean," Vin said. When Nathan looked over his shoulder to Vin, Vin used his chin to indicate Nathan's back. "You been scratching at that for a while. Sand fleas?"

He was setting the kindling under the crisscross of smaller branches but he watched Nathan out of the corner of his eye. As he expected, Nathan's face drew into a deep frown and his tone was hard. "I ain't got fleas, not now, not ever again."

Vin gave a little shrug of his shoulders, not taking offense – and noting the 'not ever again'. It was hard to live without getting a flea every now and then, but he knew that many folk took it as a sign of some sort of failing. He wasn't so keen on fleas himself, but sometimes, it just wasn't possible to find a river to wash in or even a puddle of water.

He waited until the fire caught from his lucifer, sheltering the small blaze between his hands then leaning over it until it could stand on its own. As it grew, slowly, he coaxed it along, adding twigs and shuffling the limbs around to get the air under them and into the flames. Every now and then, he looked up to see Nathan scratching again – or trying to. Most often, he was still using the knife, and Vin wondered how long it would be before he drew blood.

When the fire was going well enough to leave, he picked up the tin coffee pot he carried and walked over to the water. Nathan was several feet away, digging around in the soft ground just above the waterline.

As Vin filled the coffee pot, Nathan said, "I appreciate you taking time to help me find these things. I don't run into too many folks who understand that I'm looking for and why."

Vin nodded, brushing sand off his knees as he stood back up. "I spent some time living with some Indians," he said easily. "Learned a little about plants and things – just a little. I ain't never gonna be no medicine man or no healer." He grinned and was pleased to see Nathan's quick answering grin.

"Most folk don't put stock in the old ways," he said. "But the Indians been living here for a long time. Reckon they know a thing or two."

"They do," Vin agreed, relaxing a little. "But you know other things, too." It was a question as much as a statement, leaving Nathan to decide what he wanted to say.

After a few seconds, Nathan nodded. "When I was boy, back on the plantations, we had people who knew about plants and medicines and what to take for what ailment. I used to go rooting for herbs and such for them. Guess I learned a little more than I thought."

"Guess you did," Vin agreed. He walked back over to the fire, setting the pot down on one of the stones he had out under it. When it warmed, he added the coffee, letting it brew while he dug out biscuits, salt pork, and hard cheese. When the smell of coffee started drifting through the air, Nathan made his way back toward the fire. Dusk was settling in and it would be hard to find much of anything else until dawn.

As he put his herb pouch away and sat down across from Vin, he said, "I reckon it's this dry air. Where I grew up, it was always hot and damp – water seemed to hang in the air all the time. Here, it's like the air's so dry it sucks the water right out of you."

He wasn't looking at Vin, but staring at his knife as he cleaned it. Staring at it as if it he could cut away the dirt with his eyes. Vin realized then that Nathan had shared something important with him, and after he sorted it through in his head, he understood.

He leaned forward, picking up the coffee pot with a neck rag he kept nearby. As he swirled the coffee around in the pot a few times, helping it brew, he said, "Parts of Texas are like that, the air so thick you could choke in it. Where I grew up, though, it was mostly dry, like it is here. My grandma used to cover us up in lard during the hottest nights – smelled bad at the time, but I've learned there's a lot worse." He grinned at the memory as he set the coffee pot back down.

"Buffalo?" Nathan asked, and he looked away from the knife and toward Vin. "I ain't never met a buffalo hunter, but I've heard tales about them."

Vin nodded, leaning back against his saddle. As his back touched the leather, he looked over to where the horses were tied off, near, but not too near. "It's a hard trade," he said, pushing his hat back off his forehead. "Good money, but hard work. Felt bad doing it. White men don't use enough of the critters, we just kill 'em, for the hides."

He swallowed, clamping down on the memories that surfaced before he could stop them.

"Heard a lot of Indians died because of it," Nathan said, looking back at his knife again.

Vin sighed, that memory sharpest of all. "Yeah, they did," he agreed, feeling the familiar ache.

Eventually, Nathan finished cleaning his knife. As he put it away, Vin felt his gaze. It stirred him from the thoughts he didn't want to have and while he thought it was a relief, he also wondered what Nathan might have to say now.

"Coffee ready?" Nathan asked.

Vin nodded, pulling it off the fire. He poured his own mug first, watching for grounds, and when there weren't too many, he poured a mug for Nathan.

Nathan reached over to get it, his hand brushing Vin's. "Lard, huh. I've heard of neatsfeet oil being good for itching. I think I've even got some with me."

Vin nodded, putting the coffee pot back in the hot rock. He reached for the biscuits and cheese which were wrapped in a napkin, and offered them to Nathan. Nathan glanced at him, his lips twitching as he took what he wanted.

"I've used it a time or two," Vin said, taking a a biscuit of his own. "My skin itself ain't too bad, but I've got a few scars that seem to itch like the very devil when the air gets too dry." He worked on getting cheese and salt pork into the biscuit as he talked, watching his fingers. "Comanche are hard people to live with until you get to know them. They don't take too kindly to people who don't follow their ways." The biscuit finally came together as he wanted and he closed it up, lifting it to his mouth. But as it neared, he paused, letting the words out as if they were just a passing thought. "I got me a beating or two before I learned the way they did things."

Nathan made a noise that Vin couldn't decipher. He glanced up and saw Nathan staring at him, his eyebrows high up on his wide forehead and his mouth open even though the biscuit wasn't anywhere near it.

"They beat you?" Nathan choked out, putting his biscuit down.

Vin frowned, not liking the tone of Nathan's voice. "Weren't nothing." he said. "Least, not compared to – others." He looked away and finally taking a bite of his biscuit. This wasn't the way he'd meant it to go. As he chewed, he felt the itch between his shoulder blades and along his ribs.

As he swallowed, Nathan lifted his own biscuit and actually got it to his mouth this time.

They ate in silence for a time, and Vin refilled their coffee mugs without a word. As he sat thinking, he counted up the days; not yet thirty but soon. He liked it here, a lot more than he had thought he would. It felt good staying in one place, even if it did make him look over his shoulder more.

He liked Chris, and more, he trusted him. He'd never met a white man who he felt he understood – or who he felt understood him, not the way he felt about Chris. Buck was all right too – someone that Chris trusted even if Chris didn't want to own up to it, even to himself. Josiah was like the medicine men he'd met among the Comanche – smart and in tune to things that made no sense to anyone grounded in the earth. JD was a kid, but a good kid, still finding his way in the world but with a good heart. Ezra – well, he was a trickster, but he, too, had a good heart. Even if he didn't want to own it.

No, he didn't want to leave yet, but maybe it was time. Better to leave by choice than wait for things to fall apart.

"Don't know that I've ever met a white man with scars." The words were so soft that Vin didn't hear them, not at first. But after a time, they wormed their way into his head, making him aware that they weren't a part of the trickle of the water or the soft brush of the bush in the breeze of the fading sun.

When they did, he looked up to find Nathan's eyes on him again. He swallowed then stumbled a little as he tried to find words. "Don't know that they're what you think they are. I was a kid and sometimes, I didn't do what I should have. There wasn't a lot of room for mistakes there – you missed a kill or scraped the meat off the skin wrong or wasted something, and people could die. There weren't no general store to go to get stuff if you needed it – the buffalo was everything. Everything we did was to protect the tribe, the family. I learned, and I learned how important it was that I did what needed doing. I don't reckon it was the same as . . . "

"No, maybe it wasn't the same as the whippings I got," Nathan said, his tone low and even. "But I guess – I guess it don't really matter, does it. Here we are, the two of us, sitting here sharing bread and talking 'bout ways to stop this infernal itching." He stretched out an arm, catching up his saddle bags and drawing them across the ground toward him. "There's a place in the middle of my back I can't reach except with the blade – and I don't reckon I want to put a bare blade on the skin, even if it is covered with oil." He rummaged for a few seconds then held up a cloth-wrapped bottle. "I'll do yours if you return the favor."

Vin stared for a second, his stomach tense at the idea of taking off his shirt. But he saw the same thing in Nathan's eyes and knew that this was far more than an offer of neatsfoot oil. He sat up, shrugging off his coat and hat. Working loose the buttons at the collar of his shirt, it occurred to him that there was another way to do this. Dropping his hat onto his coat, he pushed off his galluses and pulled the back of his shirt out of his pants. It wasn't hard to pull the worn calico fabric up over his head, leaving his sleeves in place and his chest covered. He didn't like the fact that he couldn't move his hands as much, and without thinking, he reached down to his gun, making sure he could draw it if he needed to.

"Hey, now," Nathan said, his voice close. "No need for that, I ain't planning to do nothing sneaky."

Vin looked up to see Nathan standing several feet away, the bottle of neatsfoot oil in one hand and the stopper in another. He grinned, reluctantly dropping his hand away from his mares leg. "No, I don't reckon you are," he said.

But as Nathan stepped closer, Vin felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to make Nathan feel not so alone, but now, having someone looking at him, seeing the scars, his scars . . . his life . . .

"Yours itch bad?" Nathan asked. He was standing over Vin, so close Vin could feel the heat of him.

"Sometimes," he said, curling so that he was resting his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, refusing to look up to see what was on the other man's face. Damned fool, damned stupid -

"They took you, didn't they?" Nathan dropped down beside Vin. "When you were a kid."

Vin winced at the words, at the closeness, then he jerked when something moved lightly and slowly over the long scar that ran down his back, to one side of his spine.

"How long were you with them?" he asked. He shifted and Vin smelled the pungent oil.

He swallowed, waiting for the touch. When he didn't come, he swallowed again and said, "Don't know. Four, five years, maybe longer. Hard to figure time with them."

Which was a lie, one of the worst he told, but it was so much easier than trying to explain the truth, that life among the Nermernuh was the best life he'd ever known. That the day they had raided the ranch and taken him away had been the luckiest day of his life.

That many of the scars on his back hadn't been from the Comanche family that had taken him in.

He jerked again as Nathan finally touched him. It was light, careful, and warm; the oil was soothing, sliding easily between his skin and Nathan's fingertips. The itch seemed to grow stronger, but only ahead of where Nathan was touching. As soon as he brushed over the line of a scar, the itch faded away, replaced with a heat that spread into Vin's muscles and all through his back.

It wasn't just in his back, though; as Nathan rubbed over the other scars, the knot in Vin's stomach started to shrink, too.

"My daddy used to say that there was no call to be shy about the marks," Nathan said quietly. "He said they shouldn't be reminders to me, 'cause I couldn't see them. They should be reminders to others, to the men who put them there, that they were wrong." The movement of his hands was steadier now, and wider. He spread his fingers more, touching more than the lines of raised skin. "I try to keep that in mind, but it's hard sometimes."

"Yeah," Vin agreed, or tried to; the word seemed to catch in his throat. He tried to raise his head, but it was hard to concentrate. It had been too long since anyone had touched him like this, bare skin to bare skin, gentle. Been a long time since he'd let anyone.

"Feel better?" Nathan asked after a time, his rhythm slowing.

"Yeah," Vin answered, forcing himself to move. "Thanks." He sat for a few seconds, letting the oil dry a little before reaching up to pull his shirt over his head. As he pulled it down, he glanced to Nathan who was staring out toward the water.

"Rain saw my scars," Nathan said softly. "She said that it made me one of them, a former slave." He turned a looked at Vin as he went on, "Were you a slave to the Indians? I know they have them."

Vin shook his head, refusing to consider any answer but this one. "They took me in, took care of me."

"But they made you work – and they did that," he said, tilting his head toward Vin's back. "How can that not make you a slave?"

Vin shrugged. "'Cause I wanted to be there, I guess."

"You wanted to stay with them?" Nathan shook his head, as if the idea made no sense to him. "Why would you want to stay there?"

"They cared about me," he said simply. "Here," he reached out, taking the bottle out of Nathan's hand, hoping to change the conversation.

Nathan shook his head again, but he let Vin have the bottle and he set about lifting his own shirt. As he settled on the ground beside Vin, bending his head forward Vin saw the long lines of scars that crossed his back. Brown strips, darker than the skin from which they rose, in no particular pattern.  
Vin had seen whip marks before, many times, but for some reason, these were different. He'd never seen his own, and seeing Nathan's made him wonder what his own looked like. Maybe it was because Nathan was one of the few people who had ever touched his.

Maybe it was because Nathan's were among the few Vin had ever touched.

He poured the oil onto his fingers, letting it dribble down into his palm. "I had a choice," he said softly as he touched the largest ridge on Nathan's back. "I could have left, but I didn't want to. You didn't have that choice, Nathan."

Nathan tensed, the muscles under Vin's hand hardening, but he didn't move away. Vin moved his fingers along the thick ridge, feeling the heat of Nathan's body. The oil glistened in the flickering light of the small fire, making Nathan's skin look darker, the darkest bare skin Vin had seen.

He moved from one ridge to another, working the oil into the knotted skin. As he kneaded, Nathan gradually relaxed, his body bending forward so that he eventually rested his arms on his knees, leaning down the same way Vin had.

After a time, as Vin worked the last of the lines, a shorter one that rested along the curve of a rib, Nathan grunted and stirred. "That's a lot better," he said, his voice rough. "Must be this dry air."

Vin let his fingers linger a few seconds, drifting down the dark line until it vanished into the taut skin around it.

As he drew his hand away, he felt odd, as if he were breaking away from something, losing something. It reminded him of that last day, when the soldiers came and everything in his life changed again.

"It ain't right to hurt somebody like that," Nathan said with a sigh. "But if it was your choice, your decision . . ."

It was hard for him to say, Vin could tell. But then, it was hard to understand, which was why Vin didn't talk about it much. Or at all.

He put the bottle of oil down, standing it up in the soft dirt between them, then he got to his feet. The fire needed more wood, the horses needed to be checked, and he needed to move around, to distract himself from the memories, from the heat that still warmed his hand.

By the time he got back with more wood, Nathan was back on his side of the fire, his bedroll stretched out and his shirt back in place. The bottle of neatsfoot oil was gone, probably tucked back into Nathan's saddled bags. He was drinking coffee and Vin saw this his own mug had been refilled. As he finished setting the fire then rolled out his own bedroll, Nathan said, "I came west looking for a different place. It's different, all right, but in some ways, it's the same."

Vin settled back against his saddle, pulling his hat down over his eyes. His shirt pulled along the skin of his back, sticking in the light coating of oil. But it didn't make him itch. "Yep," he agreed, smiling in the dark. "But maybe not."

Nathan snorted, but his teeth flashed in the firelight. "Maybe not," he agreed. "Maybe not now."


End file.
